and all the world is looking your way
by The Lady Avaritia
Summary: So keep playing your twisted little games, lost child of evil. Loki's life.


and all the world is looking your way

_So keep playing your twisted games._

i.

He's eight and he's never spoken a lie in his life, up until that point. Not a single fallacy has escaped his lips. He is eight and words like _silvertongue_ and _liesmith_ mean nothing to him. He is just Loki Odinson, brother of Thor. He is not strong or tall, and even Sif can beat him up and she's a year younger, but he has a sharp wit, and quick mind, and a way with words. Accidental magic happens around him.

ii.

He is nine and Thor's friends are being cruel in the way children are often cruel. He is angry, in the way children are often angry. He walks off, all the grace and dignity of a prince, head held high, but he is hurting. Frigga thinks, perhaps, she should've seen it then She tries to soothe him, as all mothers do, to make it all go away, but she can't. he already fights his battles alone.

"You know," he tells her softly, head tilted bird-like, "I want to hurt them now." And his eyes, blue and cold like the furthest glacier-tops of Jotunheim fall flat and hard and unfeeling.

It's the only time she has ever raised hand to her child. It was usually Thor, who got the lashings, and the occasional slap, never Loki, but she slaps him anyway, and her hand leaves a red imprint on the soft creamy skin of his cheek.

"Don't ever speak like that, do you hear me?" she nearly yells, almost desperately. "Never!"

"Yes mother."

Something dies in her when she hears his voice, and she feels like a monster for daring lay a hand on her precious baby. He is just a child. He doesn't know what he's saying, and certainly, there is no actual ill intent behind his words. He is just being pettily vindictive like all children are.

iii.

He is ten, and it's Thor's birthday, and he's only just a little jealous of his brother and his friends. Loki does not have friends. Frigga asks him if he is enjoying himself. Loki, at that point, still hasn't spoken a lie, but oh, a son's desire not to hurt his mother is all-encompassing.

"It is a wondrous party, mother. Certainly, I am having a good time." He smiles up and her and maintains eye contact the whole time.

She beams happily at him. It's the first lie he has ever spoken, consciously. It tastes well on his tongue, like molten silver, burning, painful, and oh, so powerful. He smiles to himself. It's that easy to make people think what he wants them to think and feel what he wants them to feel. And in his defense, his first lie was a white lie, a good lie, a lie for protection and a lie of love.

iv.

He is thirteen, and his body is changing. He's awkward, and uncertain around his peers. He locks himself in the library for days at a time, devoted entirely to studying magic. He would much rather bleed his eyes over some ancient scroll or another rather than sit and be mocked by Thor and his friends. Thor's words are always all in god jest and all in good humor, but not the others. Sif despises him, and the three dimwits are not far behind. He has become a punching bag, and prefers to not be publicly humiliated on the trainees area.

v.

He is fifteen and Asgard knows him as the God of Mischief. He has become infamous with his magic, but not with his lies, not yet anyway.

vi.

He is sixteen, and he's changed. He's grown into his height, his face has sharpened, his cheekbones more prominent, and his thin lips – more proportional now, to his chiseled features. He's grown his hair, dark and soft like a raven's wing, almost to his shoulders. He dresses in armor of poison green, the color of jealousy, betrayal, evil, wisdom, immortality, and serenity.

Some of the court maidens are looking at him, and blushing and whispering, and these days there's a small smirk etched on his face, like a small cut made with a pocket knife. He is a smooth talker, and his lies have come, one after the other, to gain him power, and respect. He has found his way back into the position of warrior, and he fights quickly, swiftly and elusively, but magic remains his primary weapon.

vii.

He is seventeen, and Sif spits in his face and tell him that only he can make mockery out of honor. He smiles at her, his smile, which has become a little strained, perhaps, and in need of fitting, and he shrugs his shoulders, gracefully and tells her how sorry he is that she feels that way, and then looks her straight in the eye and she knows he doesn't mean a single fucking word.

viii.

He isn't a boy anymore, and he has some years behind his back. They call him Loki Liesmith and Loki Silvertongue and Loki God of Mischief, and he throws his head back and laughs heartily and his smile, ill-fitting, worn at the edges, rotten in its core, like a banana peel slowly darkens, and slips away from his handsome sharp face.

ix.

He isn't who he used to be anymore. He easily fights his way to the throne of Asgard with the only weapon that he's ever needed – his lies. His smile has peeled off completely, just barely holding on his face like some ugly infected wound. He says things now, things like "war" and "my friends" and "my father" and he doesn't mean a single word.

x.

He is a traitor to Asgard, and he takes the name Laufeyson out of spite, and vindictive childish cruelty. He mocks his brother and he mocks the world, and he lets go and falls into the abyss. He is the monster that children fear at night when the words God of Evil are uttered. And Thor wants to ask him, was it worth it? Was any of it worthy? Probably. He proved them wrong. He proved all of them wrong. Loki Laufeyson outsmarted and outplayed the world, Loki Laufeyson fooled Asgard, Loki Laufeyson lied to an entire domain. He made honor out of mockery.


End file.
